ANDROMACHE.
Wilt thou, Hector, leave me?—leave me weeping,
Where Achilles' murderous blade is heaping
Bloody offerings on Patroclus' grave?
Who, alas, will teach thine infant truly
Spears to hurl, the gods to honor duly,
When thou'rt buried 'neath dark Xanthus' wave?

HECTOR.
Dearest wife, go,—fetch my death-spear glancing,
Let me join the battle-dance entrancing,
For my shoulders bear the weight of Troy!
Heaven will be our Astyanax' protector!
Falling as his country's savior, Hector
Soon will greet thee in the realms of joy.

His embrace—what maddening rapture bound us!
Bosom throbbed 'gainst bosom with wild might;
Mouth and ear were chained—night reigned around us—
And the spirit winged toward heaven its flight.

CHORUS OF ROBBERS.
What so good for banishing sorrow
As women, theft, and bloody affray?
We must dance in the air to-morrow,
Therefore let's be right merry to-day!

A free and jovial life we've led,
Ever since we began it.
Beneath the tree we make our bed,
We ply our task when the storm's o'erhead
And deem the moon our planet.
The fellow we swear by is Mercury,
A capital hand at our trade is he.

To-day we become the guests of a priest,
A rich farmer to-morrow must feed us;
And as for the future, we care not the least,
But leave it to heaven to heed us.

And when our throats with a vintage rare
We've long enough been supplying,
Fresh courage and strength we drink in there,
And with the evil one friendship swear,
Who down in hell is frying.

The groans o'er fathers reft of breath,
The sorrowing mothers' cry of death,
Deserted brides' sad sobs and tears.
Are sweetest music to our ears.

Ha! when under the axe each one quivering lies,
When they bellow like calves, and fall round us like flies,
Naught gives such pleasure to our sight,
It fills our ears with wild delight.
And when arrives the fatal day
The devil straight may fetch us!
Our fee we get without delay—
They instantly Jack-Ketch us.
One draught upon the road of liquor bright and clear,
And hip! hip! hip; hurrah! we're seen no longer here!

MOOR'S SONG.

BRUTUS.
Ye are welcome, peaceful realms of light!
Oh, receive Rome's last-surviving son!
From Philippi, from the murderous fight,
Come I now, my race of sorrow run.—
Cassius, where art thou?—Rome overthrown!
All my brethren's loving band destroyed!
Safety find I at death's door alone,
And the world to Brutus is a void!

CAESAR.
Who now, with the ne'er-subdued-one's tread,
Hither from yon rocks makes haste to come?—
Ha! if by no vision I'm misled,
'Tis the footstep of a child of Rome.—
Son of Tiber—whence dost thou appear?
Stands the seven-hilled city as of yore
Oft her orphaned lot awakes my tear,
For alas, her Caesar is no more?

BRUTUS.
Ha! thou with the three-and-twenty wounds!
Who hath, dead one, summoned thee to light?
Back to gaping Orcus' fearful bonds,
Haughty mourner! triumph not to-night!
On Philippi's iron altar, lo!
Reeks now freedom's final victim's blood;
Rome o'er Brutus' bier feels her death-throe,—
He seeks Minos.—Back to thy dark flood!

CAESAR.
Oh, the death-stroke Brutus' sword then hurled!
Thou, too—Brutus—thou? Could this thing be?
Son! It was thy father!—Son! the world
Would have fallen heritage to thee!
Go—'mongst Romans thou art deemed immortal,
For thy steel hath pierced thy father's breast.
Go—and shout it even to yon portal:
"Brutus is 'mongst Romans deemed immortal,
For his steel hath pierced his father's breast."
Go—thou knowest now what on Lethe's strand
Made me a prisoner stand.—
Now, grim steersman, push thy bark from land!

BRUTUS.
Father, stay!—In all earth's realms so fair,
It hath been my lot to know but one,
Who with mighty Caesar could compare;
And of yore thou called'st him thy son.
None but Caesar could a Rome o'erthrow,
Brutus only made great Caesar fear;
Where lives Brutus, Caesar's blood must flow;
If thy path lies yonder, mine is here.

RECRUIT'S SONG.

How sweet the wild sound
Of drum and of fife!
To roam o'er earth's round,
Lead a wandering life,
With steed trained aright,
And bold for the fight,
With a sword by the side,
To rove far and wide,—
Quick, nimble, and free
As the finch that we see
On bushes and trees,
Or braving the breeze,—
Huzza, then! the Friedlander's banner for me!

SECOND CUIRASSIER sings.
Up, up, my brave comrades! to horse! to horse!
Let us haste to the field and to freedom!
To the field, for 'tis there that is proved our hearts' force,
'Tis there that in earnest we need 'em!
None other can there our places supply,
Each must stand alone,—on himself must rely.

CHORUS.
None other can there our places supply,
Each must stand alone,—on himself must rely.

DRAGOON.
Now freedom appears from the world to have flown,
None but lords and their vassals one traces;
While falsehood and cunning are ruling alone
O'er the living cowardly races.
The man who can look upon death without fear—
The soldier,—is now the sole freeman left here.

CHORUS.
The man who can look upon death without fear—
The soldier,—is now the sole freeman left here.

FIRST YAGER.
The cares of this life, he casts them away,
Untroubled by fear or by sorrow;
He rides to his fate with a countenance gay,
And finds it to-day or to-morrow;
And if 'tis to-morrow, to-day we'll employ
To drink full deep of the goblet of joy,

CHORUS.
And if 'tis to-morrow, to-day we'll employ
To drink full deep of the goblet of joy.
[They refill their glasses and drink.

CAVALRY SERGEANT.
The skies o'er him shower his lot filled with mirth,
He gains, without toil, its full measure;
The peasant, who grubs in the womb of the earth,
Believes that he'll find there the treasure,
Through lifetime he shovels and digs like a slave,
And digs—till at length he has dug his own grave.

CHORUS.
Through lifetime he shovels and digs like a slave,
And digs—till at length he has dug his own grave.

FIRST YAGER.
The horseman, as well as his swift-footed beast,
Are guests by whom all are affrighted,
When glimmer the lamps at the wedding feast,
In the banquet he joins uninvited;
He woos not long, and with gold he ne'er buys,
But carries by storm love's blissful prize.

CHORUS.
He woos not long, and with gold he ne'er buys,
But carries by storm love's blissful prize.

SECOND CUIRASSIER.
Why weeps the maiden? Why sorrows she so?
Let me hence, let me hence, girl, I pray thee?
The soldier on earth no sure quarters can know,
With true love he ne'er can repay thee.
Fate hurries him onward with fury blind,
His peace he never can leave behind.

CHORUS.
Fate hurries him onward with fury blind,
His peace he can never leave behind,

FIRST YAGER.
(Taking his two neighbors by the hand. The rest do the same,
forming a large semi-circle.)
Away, then, my comrades, our chargers let's mount!
In the battle the bosom bounds lightly!
Youth boils, and life's goblet still foams at the fount,
Away! while the spirit glows brightly!
Unless ye have courage your life to stake,
That life ye never your own can make!

CHORUS.
Unless ye have courage your life to stake,
That life ye never your own can make!

SCENE—The high rocky shore of the Lake of Lucerne, opposite Schwytz.

The lake forms an inlet in the land; a cottage is near the shore;
a fisher-boy is rowing in a boat. Beyond the lake are seen the green
pastures, the villages and farms of Schwytz glowing in the sunshine.
On the left of the spectator are the peaks of the Hacken, enveloped in
clouds; on his right, in the distance, are seen the glaciers. Before
the curtain rises the RANZ DES VACHES, and the musical sound of the
cattle-bells are heard, and continue also for some time after the scene
opens.

FISHER-BOY (sings in his boat).
AIR—Ranz des Vaches.

Bright smiles the lake, as it woos to its deep,—
A boy on its margin of green lies asleep;
Then hears he a strain,
Like the flute's gentle note,
Sweet as voices of angels
In Eden that float.
And when he awakens, with ecstasy blest,
The waters are playing all over his breast,
From the depths calls a voice
"Dearest child, with me go!
I lure down the sleeper,
I draw him below."

HERDSMAN (on the mountain).
AIR—Variation of the Ranz des Vaches.

Ye meadows, farewell!
Ye pastures so glowing!
The herdsman is going,
For summer has fled!
We depart to the mountain; we'll come back again,
When the cuckoo is calling,—when wakens the strain,—
When the earth is tricked out with her flowers so gay,
When the stream sparkles bright in the sweet month of May.
Ye meadows, farewell!
Ye pastures so glowing!
The herdsman is going,
For summer has fled!

CHAMOIS-HUNTER (appearing on the top of a rock).
AIR—Second Variation of the Ranz des Vaches.

O'er the heights growls the thunder, while quivers the bridge,
Yet no fear feels the hunter, though dizzy the ridge;
He strides on undaunted,
O'er plains icy-bound,
Where spring never blossoms,
Nor verdure is found;
And, a broad sea of mist lying under his feet,
Man's dwellings his vision no longer can greet;
The world he but views
When the clouds broken are—
With its pastures so green,
Through the vapor afar.

WALTER sings.

Bow and arrow bearing,
Over hills and streams
Moves the hunter daring,
Soon as daylight gleams.

As all flying creatures
Own the eagle's sway,
So the hunter, Nature's
Mounts and crags obey.

Over space he reigneth,
And he makes his prize
All his bolt attaineth,
All that creeps or flies.

CHORUS OF BROTHERS OF MERCY.

Death comes to man with hasty stride,
No respite is to him e'er given;
He's stricken down in manhood's pride,
E'en in mid race from earth he's driven.
Prepared, or not, to go from here,
Before his Judge he must appear!

RIDDLE.

The tree whereon decay
All those from mortals sprung,—
Full old, and yet whose spray
Is ever green and young;
To catch the light, it rolls
Each leaf upon one side;
The other, black as coals,
The sun has ne'er descried.

It places on new rings
As often as it blows;
The age, too, of all things
To mortal gaze it shows.
Upon its bark so green
A name oft meets the eye,
Yet 'tis no longer seen,
When it grows old and dry.
This tree—what can it mean?
I wait for thy reply. 70

SCENE—A Park. MARY advances hastily from behind some trees. HANNAH
KENNEDY follows her slowly.

MARY.

Let me my newly-won liberty taste!
Let me rejoice as a child once again!
And, as on pinions, with airy foot hast
Over the tapestried green of the plain!
Have I escaped from my prison so drear?
Shall I no more in my sad dungeon pine?
Let me in long and in thirsty draughts here
Drink in the breezes, so free, so divine

Thanks, thanks, ye trees, in smiling verdure dressed,
In that ye veil my prison-walls from sight!
I'll dream that I am free and blest
Why should I waken from a dream so bright?
Do not the spacious heavens encompass me?
Behold! my gaze, unshackled, free,
Pierces with joy the trackless realms of light!
There, where the gray-tinged hills of mist project,
My kingdom's boundaries begin;
Yon clouds, that tow'rd the south their course direct,
France's far-distant ocean seek to win.

Swiftly-flying clouds, hardy sailors through air!
Mortal hath roamed with ye, sailed with ye, ne'er!
Greetings of love to my youthful home bear!
I am a prisoner, I am in chains,
Ah, not a herald, save ye, now remains,
Free through the air hath your path ever been,
Ye are not subject to England's proud queen!

Yonder's a fisherman trimming his boat.
E'en that frail skiff from all danger might tear me,
And to the dwellings of friends it might bear me.
Scarcely his earnings can keep life afloat.
Richly with treasures his lap I'd heap over,—
Oh! what a draught should reward him to-day!
Fortune held fast in his nets he'd discover,
If in his bark he would take me away!

Hear'st thou the horn of the hunter resound,
Wakening the echo through forest and plain?
Ah, on my spirited courser to bound!
Once more to join in the mirth-stirring train!
Hark! how the dearly-loved tones come again!
Blissful, yet sad, the remembrance they wake;
Oft have they fallen with joy on mine ear,
When in the highlands the bugle rang clear,
Rousing the chase over mountain and brake.

JOAN OF ARC (soliloquizing).

Farewell, ye mountains, and ye pastures dear,
Ye still and happy valleys, fare ye well!
No longer may Joan's footsteps linger here,
Joan bids ye now a long, a last farewell!

Ye meadows that I watered, and each bush
Set by my hands, ne'er may your verdure fail!
Farewell, ye grots, ye springs that cooling gush
Thou echo, blissful voice of this sweet vale,
So wont to give me back an answering strain,—
Joan must depart, and ne'er return again!

Ye haunts of all my silent joys of old,
I leave ye now behind forevermore!
Disperse, ye lambs, far o'er the trackless wold!
She now hath gone who tended you of yore!
I must away to guard another fold,
On yonder field of danger, stained with gore.
Thus am I bidden by a spirit's tone
'Tis no vain earthly longing drives me on.

For He who erst to Moses on the height
Of Horeb, in the fiery bush came down,
And bade him stand in haughty Pharaoh's sight,
He who made choice of Jesse's pious son,
The shepherd, as his champion in the fight,—
He who to shepherds grace hath ever shown,
He thus addressed me from this lofty tree:
"Go hence! On earth my witness thou shalt be!

"In rugged brass, then, clothe thy members now,
In steel thy gentle bosom must be dressed!
No mortal love thy heart must e'er allow,
With earthly passion's sinful flame possessed.
Ne'er will the bridal wreath adorn thy brow,
No darling infant blossom on thy breast;
Yet thou with warlike honors shalt be laden,
Raising thee high above each earthly maiden.

"For when the bravest in the fight despair,
When France appears to wait her final blow,
Then thou my holy oriflamme must bear;
And, as the ripened corn the reapers mow,
Hew down the conqueror as he triumphs there;
His fortune's wheel thou thus wilt overthrow,
To France's hero-sons salvation bring,
Deliver Rheims once more, and crown thy king!"

The Lord hath promised to send down a sign
A helmet he hath sent, it comes from Him,—
His sword endows mine arm with strength divine,
I feel the courage of the cherubim;
To join the battle-turmoil how I pine!
A raging tempest thrills through every limb;
The summons to the field bursts on mine ear,
My charger paws the ground, the trump rings clear.

SCENE—A hall prepared for a festival. The pillars are covered with
festoons of flowers; flutes and hautboys are heard behind the scene.

JOAN OF ARC (soliloquizing).

Each weapon rests, war's tumults cease to sound,
While dance and song succeed the bloody fray;
Through every street the merry footsteps bound,
Altar and church are clad in bright array,
And gates of branches green arise around,
Over the columns twine the garlands gay;
Rheims cannot hold the ever-swelling train
That seeks the nation-festival to gain.

All with one joyous feeling are elate,
One single thought is thrilling every breast;
What, until now, was severed by fierce hate,
Is by the general rapture truly blessed.
By each who called this land his parent-state,
The name of Frenchman proudly is confessed;
The glory is revived of olden days,
And to her regal son France homage pays.

Yet I who have achieved this work of pride,
I cannot share the rapture felt by all:
My heart is changed, my heart is turned aside,
It shuns the splendor of this festival;
'Tis in the British camp it seeks to hide,—
'Tis on the foe my yearning glances fall;
And from the joyous circle I must steal,
My bosom's crime o'erpowering to conceal.

Who? I? What! in my bosom chaste
Can mortal's image have a seat?
This heart, by heavenly glory graced,—
Dares it with earthly love to beat?
The saviour of my country, I,—
The champion of the Lord Most High,
Own for my country's foe a flame—
To the chaste sun my guilt proclaim,
And not be crushed beneath my shame?

(The music behind the scene changes into a soft, melting melody.)

Woe! oh woe! what strains enthralling!
How bewildering to mine ear
Each his voice beloved recalling,
Charming up his image dear!

Would that battle-tempests bound me!
Would that spears were whizzing round me
In the hotly-raging strife!
Could my courage find fresh life!

How those tones, those voices blest
Coil around my bosom burning
All the strength within my breast
Melting into tender yearning,
Into tears of sadness turning!

(The flutes are again heard—she falls into a silent melancholy.)

Gentle crook! oh that I never
For the sword had bartered thee!
Sacred oak! why didst thou ever
From thy branches speak to me?
Would that thou to me in splendor,
Queen of heaven, hadst ne'er come down!
Take—all claim I must surrender,—
Take, oh take away thy crown!

Ah, I open saw yon heaven,
Saw the features of the blest!
Yet to earth my hopes are riven,
In the skies they ne'er can rest!
Wherefore make me ply with ardor
This vocation, terror-fraught?
Would this heart were rendered harder.
That by heaven to feel was taught!

To proclaim Thy might sublime
Those select, who, free from crime,
In Thy lasting mansions stand;
Send Thou forth Thy spirit-band,
The immortal, and the pure,
Feelingless, from tears secure
Never choose a maiden fair,
Shepherdess' weak spirit ne'er!

Kings' dissensions wherefore dread I,
Why the fortune of the fight?
Guilelessly my lambs once fed I
On the silent mountain-height.
Yet Thou into life didst bear me,
To the halls where monarchs throne.
In the toils of guilt to snare me—
Ah, the choice was not mine own!